Far off, the castle’s clock chimes, reverberating through the corridors, signaling that it’s time for me to get dressed properly so I can actually get to class. Guess I’ll be skippingbreakfast today.
Poppy starts putting away her books and parchment, and when she’s done, we stand to leave the library together. I twine my fingers through hers again, then lean down to press a kiss to her head. She smells sweet, like she recently washed her hair.
But even though she’s next to me, as we head into the bustling corridor together, all I can think about is the hurt in Poppy’s eyes when she first looked up at me.
And I never want to make her look like that again.
Chapter 40
Poppy
THE COBBLESTONES ARE SLICK WITH morning dew, each one sparkling in the soft autumn light. In the spots where the sun hasn’t quite reached, frost still clings, tiny fractals of ice draped across brick walls and windowpanes, while smoke from hearth fires puffs from chimneys before curling up and away into the sky. It all serves as a reminder that winter is slowly creeping in, stealing autumn’s warmth away.
“So,” Aric says, his voice tinged with curiosity as he gently squeezes my hand, “are you going to tell me what we’re doing today?”
I shake my head and bite my lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Not yet. It’s a surprise.”
I shift my gaze to him, and he’s so handsome in the morning light—dark hair and tusks gleaming, the golden hoops in his ears winking as he turns his head to look at me.And around his neck, mostly hidden by his tunic and cloak, I spot a little shine of silver.
The necklace with his mom’s ring.
He arches a brow, and that half smile I’ve come to be so familiar with tugs at his lips. “Should I be worried?”
“Maybe a little,” I tease.
Nervous butterflies have been fluttering around in my stomach since we hit the edge of the Mistwood on our way into Wysteria. This will be the first time I introduce a boy—a boyfriend—to my mother. The word still feels new and exciting in my mind.Boyfriend.Aric is my boyfriend, and I’m taking him to meet my mom.
When I wrote to her about him, she wrote back to me in all caps with a bunch of words underlined, demanding I bring him to the café so she can meet him.
I hope she doesn’t embarrass me.
The warmth radiating from Aric’s hand is comforting, a steady anchor against the tide of nerves in my stomach. I brush my thumb across his knuckles, trying to pull my mind away from the worries that so often plague it. “It’ll be fun. I hope.”
“I’d have fun anywhere as long as I’m with you,” he says, jostling me lightly as we walk side by side.
When we arrive outside the Wandering Cup, with its wooden sign swinging gently in the crisp breeze, I get a sudden yearning for home, mixed with a tinge of guilt. It’s been too long since I visited—mostly because of Aric and planning the ball and Faunwood and all the other tasks that’ve kept me so busy this semester. I hope Mama’s doing okay.
“This is it,” I say, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. I gesture to the quaint building, smoke puffing from the chimney. “My mom’s café.”
I know Aric has been here before—he told me he’s come here quite a few times, back before we met—but we’ve never been here together.
Aric studies the storefront, with the hand-painted flowers on the window frames and the blue-painted door, then gives me that sideways smile again. “Are you introducing me to your mom, Brains?”
Immediately, my cheeks tingle, and I know it has nothing to do with the chill air.
Without answering, I push the door open, and the familiar chime of the bell announces our arrival. Inside, the air is warm and smells of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread. Mama must’ve just pulled cinnamon rolls out of the oven. She’ll let them cool for a bit, then top them with vanilla icing before putting them into the glass case for customers to buy.
“Mama!” I call out.
There’s a patter of footsteps from the kitchen in the back, and then my mom appears in the doorway. “Poppy!” She wipes her hands on a cotton towel, then tosses it onto the front counter and hurries over. She sweeps me into a tight hug that smells of home, her short brown hair tickling my cheek, then pulls back to look at Aric. “And this must be Aric! I’ve heard so much about you.”
Aric glances at me, then straightens, his ears coloring slightly as he bows his head. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Waverly.”
“Oh, call me Layla, please.” My mother beams at him, her soft brown eyes twinkling in the light coming through the big shop window. She loops her arm through his and guides him toward a table near the window. “Come, sit. You can be my taste tester. I just pulled cinnamon rolls out of the oven.”
Knew it.
“Cinnamon rolls?” Aric perks up, and a smile stretches across his face.
